Perchance to Dream
by The Real Muse
Summary: The Ghostbusters find themselves back at Columbia University fighting an ancient horror that seems to be immune to their weapons. Continued on my home website
1. Default Chapter

PERCHANCE TO DREAM By: CindyR  
  
Chapter 1  
  
[Columbia University: November 5, 2:15 am]  
  
Plainclothes policewoman Deloras Hernandez picked her way carefully across the hard-packed earth of the campus, a fraction of her attention on her footing, the rest centered to the full on her surroundings. Deloras was a six-foot amazon of a woman, more muscular than many of her male counterparts yet attractive enough to make her useful for this decoy work she so loved. An ex-Army drill sergeant trained in two styles of martial arts, Deloras was well able to handle herself in any situation police work could throw at her ... or so she thought.  
  
"I can't believe no one's fixed the light behind that dorm," she muttered just loud enough for the microphone taped to her left breast to pick up. "Make a note of that, Mark; tell the Dean that if that bulb isn't replaced by tomorrow I'm going to pay him a visit to explain the matter -- personally."  
  
She cursed softly in Spanish as the toe of her low boot caught in a clump of weeds but recovered her balance instantly and resumed her casual stroll from the dorms to the labs. A breeze rustled the leaves in a small copse of trees to her left bringing her to a halt.  
  
Deloras wrinkled her nose. "Mon, smell like something died out there." She turned her face into the breeze, a quick calculation telling her that the stench originated from the direction of the copse. "I don't remember checking those trees out before. Bear with me guys, I'm going to do a walk- by and see where that smell is coming from.  
  
"Hey, O'Brian," she added cheerfully, "you better a'got those Lakers tickets -- I've been looking forward to that game all week!"  
  
Based in a nondescript van not a hundred yards away, Deloras' partner Mark O'Brian adjusted the volume on the speakers minutely to ensure that the signal remained strong, then offered the radio's operator a friendly wink. "We're both Lakers fans," he explained, following the woman's progress by the crunch of her boots in the dry leaves. "She used to shoot a lot of hoop in high school."  
  
"I'm not surprised," the operator returned amiably. "Big woman."  
  
"Good partner. I.... She's stopped." Both men fell silent, leaning closer to the speakers in an attempt to hear more.  
  
"I-I thought I saw something move," Hernandez murmured, an unfamiliar knot of nervousness in her voice. "I'm going to...." A pause. "Madre--! It's not...! Mark! Mark, it's not human! Tentacles! Mar--" The sound of shots followed, then a shrill scream, both clearly audible even without the mike. Sgt. O'Brian drew the heavy service revolver he was never without, already through the van's doors before the scream truncated into a low gurgling noise more horrible than even the scream.  
  
Well familiar with the lay-out of the campus, O'Brian had no trouble locating the strand of trees Deloras had mentioned, nor did he have any trouble finding Deloras -- or what was left of her.  
  
"Oh, my god, kid." O'Brian dropped to his knees beside the remains, not noticing the half-dozen men, guns drawn, covering his back. Face blanked with shock, he took the woman's hand in his own and pressed it to his cheek. "Aww, Deloras," he whispered, "an' I was gonna surprise you with season tickets, too."  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
[Columbia University: November 6, 4:58 am]  
  
Dean William Yaeger crouched uncomfortably in the shadow of the campus library, his collar turned up against the early morning chill. He pulled it tighter against his throat, cursing softly as a draft worked its way inside his sweat-dampened white collar. "I still don't see why I have to be here," he growled for the dozenth time to the five other men ranged within several feet of his position. "It wasn't even my idea to call you so- called Ghostbusters in; the Trustees overruled my veto."  
  
Doctor Peter Venkman, psychologist, parapsychologist and long-time bane of Yaeger's existence, interrupted his own conversation to offer the administrator a positively angelic smile. "But Dean Yaeger," he began, nudging a taller, blond man for attention. "We wouldn't think of invading your campus without your personal presence. Right, Egon?"  
  
Yaeger winced at that familiar and hated sing-song voice, withdrawing even farther into his coat collar as the blond added in an amiable bass, "Quite right, Bill. With you here I'm sure we won't engage in any needless destruction of University property or assets." It sounded like a quote. It was.  
  
Yaeger drew himself up stiffly erect. "I meant that five years ago, Spengler, and I mean it now: you three are a bunch of phonies." He clenched his fists as Spengler and Venkman exchanged an amused look. "I'm not going to stand for your nonsense -- remember that!"  
  
Egon's smile broadened but he refrained from comment, instead adjusting a dial on the hand-held device he carried, and waving it around. "Ambient PKE," he reported, studying the results carefully. "No sign of manifestation yet,"  
  
Yaeger sneered. "Still playing mad scientist, eh, Spengler?" He gestured disdainfully to the blinking PKE meter then to the bulky packs each man carried. "Those gadgets look like something out of Buck Rogers. What about it, Stantz? You like playing superhero games, right?"  
  
"I like games," Peter interrupted. "Spin the bottle...."  
  
Yaeger ignored him, preferring to address the round featured, somewhat younger man sitting cross-legged on the ground and ardently studying a map of the college. "Admit it, Stantz, you three are only here to make my life miserable, right?"  
  
"Right!" Peter answered cheerfully.  
  
"Absolutely," Egon agreed.  
  
Earnest brown eyes rose to the administrator with none of the sarcasm evident in his colleagues. "We don't think those campus murders are being done by a human being," Ray explained patiently. "We picked up residual psychokinetic energy at two of the other murder sites and registered a significant breach of the reality envelope at the third. That clearly proves that there's a paranatural force at work here."  
  
"You sound like Egon," Peter groaned, staring at his younger colleague with mock horror."  
  
Egon grimaced. "I'm not that bad."  
  
"Are, too."  
  
"Am not."  
  
"Are...."  
  
"You," Yaeger interjected nastily, "are all crackpots."  
  
"Sgt. Hernandez might not have agreed with you."  
  
Yaeger turned to the speaker, a heretofore silent red-headed giant wearing a battered wool jacket which imperfectly concealed the bulge under his left arm. "You police really believe there's some kind of a boogie man responsible for the problems we've been experiencing?"  
  
Police Sgt. O'Brian nodded but had no opportunity to reply, for the sixth and last member of their group, Winston Zeddemore, pushed forward then, closing until he could stare into Yaeger's contemptuous gray eyes. "I do not believe you! You call four horribly mutilated bodies in seven days a 'problem'?" He studied Yaeger with all the curiosity Egon might render a new addition to his mold collection, and shook his head. "The guys told me about you before but I can't say I really believed them -- until now."  
  
"Why?" Yaeger demanded, looking from face to face with impartial dislike. "Because I choose not to believe there's some wild-eyed ghost roaming the campus killing students?" He snorted. "We'll find some tramp at the bottom of it all, mark my words."  
  
That did it. O'Brian elbowed Winston aside to take up a truculent stance less than six inches from the astonished Dean. "You've been belly-aching all night, Yaeger, and I've had enough of it. My partner was last night's victim -- a trained policewoman that I've see take down three armed muggers with her bare hands."  
  
"Sergeant," Yaeger began, backing away nervously.  
  
O'Brian pressed closer, towering over the portly man by several inches. "And there was no more than a thirty-second gap between the time Deloras screamed and when I found her ... body." He choked on the word, having to blink several times before he could go on. "When I found what was left of her body. I...."  
  
"Pssst," Zeddemore interrupted O'Brian's harsh speech with a hand on his shoulder. "Is that one of your decoys over there?"  
  
O'Brian contented himself with delivering a final glare to the cowed administrator -- much to conspicuous Venkman's delight -- before poking his head around the building's corner and following Winston's line of sight. He studied the gaily-dressed female making her way across the square carefully for a moment, then shook his head. "She's not one of mine," he declared at last. "Stupid woman -- walking home at five in the morning."  
  
"She looks like she's drunk," Winston commented, squinting his eyes in an effort at better making out the stumbling figure. He shot O'Brian a smile, teeth very white against his dark skin. "Wait here -- I'll go bring her back."  
  
"Right."  
  
Zeddemore edged around O'Brian's bulky frame, then crossed the distance to the unidentified woman at a lope. Behind him, five pairs of eyes gave him their undivided attention, and even against the muted background of New York City traffic, the distinct whine of three nuclear accelerators powering up was clearly audible.  
  
The soft whine had faded to Winston's ears by the time he reached the woman. She wore skin tight black slacks under a loose jacket, four-inch high heels explaining her unsteady gait. She was clearly either drunk or high, so much so that she didn't even notice the approaching man until he was nearly upon her. "Wha' da'ya want?" she gasped, taking a step backwards but making no move to run.  
  
Winston slowed his pace, covering the last few yards a step at a time. "It's okay, Miss, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm Winston Zeddemore -- one of the Ghostbusters."  
  
The woman studied the black man's powerful physique and open good looks for nearly a minute before offering him a gap-toothed smile. "I'm Eunice. Glad to know ya, Mr. Ghostbuster."  
  
Winston took her extended hand while casting a nervous look over his shoulder. "Eunice, there's been some trouble on the campus."  
  
"It was in the papers," Eunice interjected.  
  
"Right." Winston used his left hand to gesture towards the shadowy figures against the library wall, still gripping Eunice's hand with his right. "Why don't you let me walk you to that building over there? Those are my friends and a policeman. You'll be safe over there, okay?"  
  
"I'm sure I'd be even safer somewhere with you," Eunice hinted coyly, squeezing Winston's hand.  
  
Winston smiled. "Maybe later." He tucked the woman's arm in his own and guided her around towards the knot of police and Ghostbusters. "We'll go talk to Sergeant.... What was that?"  
  
"What was what?" Eunice asked, also stopping to listen. Suddenly she gagged, clutching at Zeddemore tightly. "What is that smell?"  
  
Winston stiffened. "Policewoman Hernandez mentioned a smell in her last report," he muttered. He released the woman's arm and gave her a shove towards the library. "Run for it, Eunice! I'll cover you."  
  
Eunice obediently began to run but, after spending the night imbibing, was too uncoordinated to make it more than a few yards before her ankle turned, depositing her butt first onto the walk. She looked up, following Winston's frozen gaze to where a dark shape had detached itself from the shadow of one of the nearer buildings and was even now approaching. Three red eyes glowed brightly in the gloom, all situated a dozen or so feet above the ground. That was when Eunice began to scream.  
  
"Game time!" Winston bellowed, unlimbering his particle thrower and powering it up. He pressed the trigger and a bolt of ionized energy erupted from the barrel, striking and briefly limning the dark form in blue-white fire. Then the beam faded, swallowed up at the target though not the source. Winston continued to fire as the half-seen shape lumbered forward, dried leaves crunching under snake-like appendages the size of telephone poles. One of them whipped out with unexpected speed missing Winston's head by inches. His eyes widened at the sight of the multiple razor-sharp claws attached to its tip, and he took a hurried step backward coming up almost immediately against the woman's supine body.  
  
"Get up, Eunice!" he pleaded, holding his ground against another swipe and continuing to fire. "Come on -- move!" Paralyzed with fright, the woman didn't respond; she remained where she was, screaming hysterically and beating the ground with her fists.  
  
Winston tried again. "Eu--" He never got to finish for at that moment another of those elephantine tentacles whipped out, catching him a powerful blow to the shoulder. Winston was catapulted backwards a half-dozen yards to slam heavily into the sidewalk. His head impacted on the curb and he lay still.  
  
"Winston!" Ray's yell preceded the man himself by seconds. The youngest Ghostbuster opened up with his own proton rifle while still some distance from his target. His aim was true, however, and he struck the creature dead center, playing his beam across its flank with the same result as Winston's attack: namely, none. Then Peter and Egon were there, too, firing their own weapons and lighting the night with enough directed energy to light a city block. Caught unprepared by the barrage, the creature halted midstep.  
  
"We're not having much effect," Egon called, having to raise his voice to be heard over the sound or the packs. He adjusted a dial and his stream perceptibly brightened. "Try full power!"  
  
"I'm already on full power!" Ray returned, continuing his own attack. "I think it's corporeal -- we can't trap it!"  
  
"So what are we going to do with it?" Peter demanded, dropping to one knee to fire at the creature's belly. He started, nearly losing control of his thrower at the sharp report to his immediate right. He tightened his grip, then turned his head carefully until he could make out Sgt. O'Brian, who was discharging his service revolver with grim determination. Peter shook his head. "No good, bunky," he told the man calmly. "If those things ever worked, you wouldn't need us."  
  
"Yeah, I can see how much good you're doing," O'Brian retorted, firing off his final bullet and watching with relief as Eunice fled the scene. "Got any bright ideas?"  
  
Peter shrugged. "Nope. D'you, Egon?"  
  
Spengler opened his mouth to reply, his flippant response transformed into a warning yell as the creature gave a final powerful twist of its body and broke free of the beams. "Look out, Ray!" he called instead. "It's headed your way!"  
  
Undeterred by the creature's increasing proximity, Stantz made several adjustments to his own thrower controls. The visible energy output shifted both color and intensity as he tested different power levels and ionization rates against the advancing entity, none of them doing more than slowing it fractionally.  
  
"Run!" Egon ordered from the creature's opposite flank. "You're too close!"  
  
Stantz abandoned his experimentation at that last shout, diving frantically to the side to escape the powerful lash of an appendage. He'd miscalculated its speed, however, for the claws caught him before he could get clear, catching him high up on the back and slashing downward. The strap securing his proton pack parted first under that deadly assault, allowing the bulky pack to swing free to one side. The talon didn't stop there, for it continued its descent, cutting through the sand-colored uniform and skin as though they were tissue. Ray cried out, dropping into a heap on the damp ground.  
  
The powerful nether-being lifted yet another of the writhing tentacles which comprised its huge body, preparing to again strike the injured Stantz -- a blow which would certainly be a fatal one. Peter leaped to his feet, hastily retraining his beam to the ruby eyes far above his head. He grunted with satisfaction as the creature emitted a loud howl and shamble- slithered back several lengths. "Bingo!" he crowed, following it. "Ray, are you okay?"  
  
"I'm ... fine," came Stantz' quavering response.  
  
Venkman spared him a single concerned glance but had no time for more as the entity broke free of the blistering energy stream and fled, moving fast.  
  
"It's headed for Kimball Hall," Spengler said at Peter's shoulder. "I saw a light in the windows earlier -- there may be people in there."  
  
"That's Professor Cage's lab!" Yaeger gasped, joining them at last. "He often works throughout the night!"  
  
The two uninjured Ghostbusters exchanged a look then started off in pursuit of their quarry, their long legs eating up the distance in great strides. They reached the indicated building seconds after the creature had disappeared through the wall; panting slightly, they halted before the heavy fire doors, listening intently.  
  
"I don't hear anything," Peter whispered, flattening himself against the stucco wall and grasping the knob. It turned easily in his hand, the doors swinging open with a squeak. "You ready?"  
  
Egon nodded, the knuckles wrapped around his particle rifle were white. "Now!" With that, Peter kicked open the door and the two burst into a great arched foyer to confront ... nothing.  
  
"It couldn't have hidden that fast," Egon remarked, peering around. They edged their way slowly down the corridor, bootheels ringing hollowly on the hardwood floor, senses stretched to the limit for signs of their prey.  
  
"What do you think?" Peter asked minutes later as yet one more darkened room yielded nothing more sinister than some dead frogs soaking in formaldehyde.  
  
Egon adjusted his red-rimmed glasses more firmly on the bridge of his long nose, then shrugged. "I don't...."  
  
"What do you want here?" a loud voice demanded from down the hall.  
  
The unexpected noise sent both Ghostbusters into a defensive crouch, fingers on the triggers of their weapons. Battle-trained reflexes were the only things which prevented the short, stout newcomer from being instantly reduced to his component atoms.  
  
"Cage?" Peter gulped, lowering his weapon at once.  
  
Professor Samuel Cage gaped, not twitching a muscle until Egon, too, redirected his proton rifle. His mouth opened and closed for several seconds like a landed fish until he could force his tongue into service. "Peter Venkman!" he raged, the color returning to his cheeks in a flood. "I should have known it was you disrupting my experiment at a critical stage."  
  
Egon ignored the irate man to check his instruments. "There's another door at the end of this corridor," he said, gesturing with the meter. "I'll check it out but I'm no longer registering high-level PKE. I think it's gone."  
  
"Right." Peter stood watching until the blond disappeared through the door in question, then sighed and returned his rifle to its clip. "Don't suppose you saw a monster go by?" he quipped, brushing past the glaring Cage to enter the laboratory. "About so high.... Hey, nice lab coat. New?"  
  
A single glance convinced him that the huge being had not, in fact, ducked in here but he circled the room anyway, alert for anything. His tour brought him past long banks of monitors and computer equipment, some of them hooked up to what Peter immediately identified as an electro- encephalograph and assorted bio-recorders. His circuit terminated at an observation port which overlooked a slightly smaller, more dimly lit room done up with the trappings of a hospital ward. Curious, Peter paused to peek inside. "What's this?"  
  
"That," Cage replied with a note of pride, "is my experiment."  
  
Peter stood watching, taking in every facet of the fully equipped room with one sweep of green eyes. It wasn't large -- perhaps twelve feet by twelve -- but was crammed full of blinking equipment girding a raised hospital bed located in the geometric center of the floor. A draped figure lay on the bed, distinctly feminine in form, while a white-uniformed woman bent over it, finishing the task of changing the sheets. "Oh." Peter nodded wisely. "You're a voy-er."  
  
"That's voyeur," Cage snapped, pronouncing the word correctly; Peter snickered. "And I am not. It's a new approach to sleep research -- something I believe even you dabbled in at one time."  
  
Peter picked up one of the notebooks laying on the nearby desk; he opened it up, scanning the entries with an experienced eye. "Only until I got into the parapsychological field," he commented absently. "Hmmm, Marie D'Loeffier. French?"  
  
"Haitian," Cage corrected, snatching the notebook away. "Transfer from Florida State." He hesitated, the desire to discuss his accomplishment visibly warring with reluctance in his flabby features. "She's been asleep seven weeks," he blurted at last. "Thanks to me."  
  
Peter left off his renewed perusal of the women to shoot Cage a hard look. "Drugs?"  
  
"No." The older man laid a hand possessively on a long metal console studded with switches and gauges. "I'm using electrodes to provide stimulation to very specific portions of Marie's brain, thus keeping her in a permanent state of artificially induced Alpha rhythm. Theoretically, I can keep her asleep forever."  
  
"Induced Alpha?" Peter sputtered. "Look, Cage, that woman could die...."  
  
Cage raised a hand, cutting off the younger scientist's protest. "Marie is being constantly monitored," he returned with great dignity, "and is in no present danger."  
  
"Probably the most fun she's going to get in bed," Peter retorted dryly, "considering who she's here with."  
  
Cage reddened again. "Now look, Venkman," he began dangerously.  
  
"P-Peter?"  
  
That soft hail from the entrance drew both combatants around at once. Ray Stantz stood leaning shakily against the doorjamb, a tight grip on the knob the only thing keeping him on his feet at all. Peter was at his side in an instant, steadying the sagging figure with an arm slung about his chest. "Looks like he got you pretty good," he remarked, forcibly turning Stantz around to examine the bloody gashes on his back. "Nasty," he decided after a look, "but they're not too serious."  
  
"Not me," Ray protested, clinging to Peter's arm. "It's Winston." He ran a hand through his auburn hair leaving behind a streak of blood. "You've got to come, Peter, I think he's hurt bad!"  
  
Peter's concerned expression transmuted into one of outright fear. Steadying Ray with a tight grip on his elbow, he hurriedly ushered the younger man out of the lab towards the main doors, promptly forgetting Cage existed at all.  
  
Egon, returning from his unfruitful hunt, met them by the entrance and the trio emerged into the rose-tinted air of dawn as a unit.  
  
"Over there." Ray pointed to the knot of uniformed men and women on the far side of the plaza, then gasped as the action pulled on his injuries. Peter urged him gently into Egon's direction, waiting until the tall blond had taken over steadying the engineer before heading for the larger group at a sprint.  
  
O'Brian met Peter en route, then pushed ahead of him to clear a path through the crowd. "Don't touch him," the policeman advised over his shoulder. "We think he's got a concussion -- maybe even a fractured skull."  
  
Peter knelt by his friend, clenching his teeth at the sight of the blood which pooled under the dark head. He patted Winston's shoulder clumsily although the man did not stir, and looked up at the arrival of Egon and Ray. "He's unconscious," he said unnecessarily.  
  
"Will he be all right?" Ray asked in a small voice.  
  
O'Brian, standing a little to the side, was the one who answered. "Ambulance is on the way," he assured the stricken men. "Don't worry, we'll get him -- and you," he added, catching sight of Ray's torn back, "to a hospital as fast as we can."  
  
Dean Yaeger appeared, bulldozing his way through the crowd with impartial disregard for their uniforms. "I told the Trustees you Ghostbusters weren't going to do us any good!" he raged, waving both fists in the air. "I'll see you're dismissed from this case at once! I'll have you barred from.... Ulp!"  
  
That last was the result of Peter Venkman's fingers closing forcefully around Yaeger's throat and giving it a very firm squeeze. "You get this straight, Bill," he purred dangerously. "Two of my buddies got hurt on this one -- bad. That means we're not talking business anymore, Bill. It's personal."  
  
He leaned closer until his breath just tickled Yaeger's nose. "You even try to stop us from bagging this bird and we'll come back and reduce this whole place -- and you -- to Kibbles and Bits. Got it?"  
  
Yaeger glanced nervously from the glittering green eyes to Egon's cold blue ones, and nodded.  
  
"Good!" Peter released him and stepped back, taking a minute to brush a wrinkle out of Yaeger's coat. "Guess that means we're still on the case, huh? 'S'cuse us, Dean, but the Ghostbusters have got some busting to do!"  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
  
The garage was quiet when Peter returned early that afternoon: no ringing telephone, no clack-clack of the typewriter keys. He peered through the door cautiously before stepping inside, waiting until his eyes adjusted from the bright sun. "Janine?"  
  
"Peee-terrr!"  
  
A semi-transparent, distinctly green mass of ectoplasm detached itself from the ceiling and streaked earthward on a collision course with Venkman's head. He ducked ... to no avail, for the mass simply corrected its course, terminating its run with a loud Splat! against Peter's chest.  
  
"Aaaagh!" Peter screeched, staring aghast at the front of his brown uniform. "Slimer! I hate that!"  
  
Quite oblivious to censure, the little netherbeing threw his skinny arms around Peter's neck, kissing him soundly. "Peeeter's back!" he crooned, liberally spreading the ectoplasm to Peter's face.  
  
"Yuck" Peter spat, scrubbing his mouth with his sleeve. "You know, Slimer, you make a good case for my profession, you know that?"  
  
"I love you, too, Peter," Slimer returned equably.  
  
Peter sighed.  
  
"I see he got you again, Doctor V." Janine's giggle followed her words lightly across the garage. Peter disengaged Slimer's arms and crossed to her, scowling.  
  
"It wouldn't be so bad if it was only once and awhile," he growled, wiping his dripping hands on the seat of his pants. "But the spud slimes me every single time I walk through the door!" He pulled his uniform away from his skin; fortunately since Slimer often neglected to solidify fully before touching them, ectoplasm evaporated quickly, disappearing with less residue than one might expect.  
  
Janine giggled again, finding Venkman's predicament a source of endless amusement. "He loves you, Doctor V.!" She paused. "Of course there's no accounting for taste."  
  
Slimer planted a kiss on the top of his head and Peter swatted him irritably away. "I just wish he'd slime somebody else for a change. Why does it always have to be me?"  
  
"He hugs Ray almost as much as he does you." Janine leaned back in her chair, crossing her shapely legs at the knee. "You should have seen Ray this morning -- Slimer had him soaked from head to toe!" She laughed aloud at the memory. "He'd just gotten out of the shower, too; had to go take another one."  
  
Even Peter had to smile at that. Although Slimer loved them all, even he had his favorites, those being Ray and Peter himself. Ray he loved whole- heartedly; Peter he worshipped and not from afar. That thought brought Peter back to the present and his own sticky state. "Wish he'd give Winston or Egon my share, then; he barely touches them."  
  
Janine adjusted her short skirt minutely. "Winston sat down and had a long talk with Slimer once; that stopped it for him. And Egon...." She sighed, her eyes taking on the dreamy look they always did whenever the tall blond physicist was mentioned. "Egon just stares at him with those blue eyes of his," she sighed again, "and Slimer backs off."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know all that," Peter harumphed, running his fingers across his raspy jaw. "And speaking of that bunch'a crackpots I'm associated with, where are they?"  
  
"You're a fine one to talk about crackpots," Janine sniffed. "But if you're talkin' about Egon and Ray, they're in your office looking some stuff up."  
  
"Got'cha." Peter rounded her desk, pausing at the small hand on his sleeve. "What?"  
  
Concerned green eyes peered up at him from behind green-framed glasses, giving the woman a softer look than she generally permitted to show. "I was just wondering how Winston was. Ray was awful upset this morning and even Egon looked worried. Egon never looks worried unless it's serious."  
  
Venkman patted her hand and she released him. "Winston's going to be fine," he assured her. "He woke up with the mother of all headaches, though. They'll be letting him out of the hospital in a day or two."  
  
She smiled and he trudged wearily on past the reception area to the glassed- in office he had claimed as his own on their first day there. "Yo, dudes!" he called, kicking the door open with his toe. "Petey's home!"  
  
Two heads rose at that -- one blond, one auburn -- but the expression on the dissimilar features carried the exact same note of exhaustion as was on Peter's own face. "Boy, you guys sure wouldn't win any beauty contests right now," Venkman remarked, pointedly ignoring his own less-than-dapper state. "I hope that means you found something."  
  
Egon removed his glasses, laying them carefully in his lap. Then he used both hands to rub at his eyes, leaving them even redder than before. "Not much," he admitted, leaning back. "The police delivered the autopsy reports on Policewoman Hernandez this morning." He waved vaguely towards a sheaf of computer print on one corner of the desk. "The coroner discovered decayed vegetable matter in the wounds along with several bone chips probably belonging to a small animal of some kind."  
  
"Peter?" Ray interrupted his older partner before Spengler could launch into full lecture mode. "What about Winston? Is he going to be all right?"  
  
Egon looked surprised for a moment, then cocked one inquiring brow in Peter's direction. "What about Winston?" he echoed. "Did the hospital tell you anything?"  
  
Peter shoved aside the police reports to perch himself on the corner of the desk. "Hospital wouldn't tell me anything," he grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest. "But they did call Winston's father in -- consent forms and stuff."  
  
"What about Winston?" Ray demanded, clutching the heavy book he held tight in both hands.  
  
Peter shrugged. "All things considered, he's doing terrific. It took a couple of stitches to close that cut in his head and he's got a concussion, but he should be out of the hospital day after tomorrow."  
  
"Thank goodness!" Ray exhaled softly, laying the book back onto his lap. "I was afraid...."  
  
"We all were," Egon acknowledged, returning his glasses to the bridge of his long nose. "There was quite a bit of blood."  
  
"Not all of it was Winston's," Peter remembered aloud. He reached out to tap Ray's auburn head with his knuckles. "What about it, fly-boy? How's the back?"  
  
Ray smiled shyly up at him causing Peter to smile back. "I'm all right, it just hurts a little is all."  
  
"I'll bet it does," Peter snorted, eyes drawn irresistibly to the line of bandages just visible through Stantz' light blue shirt. "You looked like a cross-stitch pattern."  
  
Ray blushed and changed the subject. "Do you want to hear what we found out?"  
  
"What there is of it," Spengler interjected sourly.  
  
"Sure." Peter turned back to the tall blond and winked. "Floor's all yours, Professor Spengs, baby. What did you find out?"  
  
Spengler cleared his throat and stood, the ideal picture of the college lecturer. "As I mentioned earlier, there was decayed vegetable matter and bones in the wounds of Sgt. Hernandez corresponding to similar traces in at least two previous victims. These were submitted for analysis." He sorted through the reports Peter had so cavalierly shoved aside, selecting one and proffering it to the lounging psychologist. "A botanist has identified it as a type of vine native to the Caribbean -- found no where else, in fact.  
  
Peter chewed his thumbnail thoughtfully. "The Caribbean. You mean like Haiti?"  
  
"Yes, why?"  
  
Peter shook his head. "Maybe nothing. Go on."  
  
Egon regarded him steadily for a moment before he continued. "Ray and I scoured our references, paying particular attention to the superstitions indigent to the Caribbean peoples. Tobins revealed nothing; as a matter of fact, none of our more reliable references mentioned this particular nether- being at all."  
  
Egon held out his hand and Ray handed him the leather tome he'd been clasping. Gold lettering winked dully in the fluorescent lighting as Egon thumbed it through. "What we came up with I won't even dignify by calling a superstition -- a fairytale, perhaps, designed to frighten disobedient children."  
  
"We've come up against those before," Ray reminded him gently.  
  
The blond flashed a smile. "Yes, I know. But I will never understand why parents will do that to their children. Terrifying them into obedience can not be good discipline."  
  
"Actually, it stinks," the brown haired psychologist of the group stated flatly. "But we're not gathered together to do the Doctor Spock routine, are we, dearly beloved?"  
  
"No." Gathering his thoughts, Egon located the proper page, then passed the book across. "This is by noted anthropologist Jorge Jiminez. He spent several years documenting the lore associated with the Caribbean sugar plantations."  
  
Peter spent several minutes staring at a rough pencil sketch vaguely resembling the unearthly obscenity they'd fought early that morning. "M'Tumba," he pronounced, scanning the page. "The text is in Spanish."  
  
"You speak Spanish," Ray pointed out with charming innocence. "Better than either of us." He pointed ruefully to the two Spanish-English dictionaries scattered among the books on the floor, smothering a yawn with his free hand. "A lot better than me, anyway."  
  
Green eyes glinted with boyish mischief but Peter's expression was solemn. "But I'm sure you've already done a complete and professional translation. Since time is of the essence, I think it would behoove you to...."  
  
"Oh, do shut up!" Egon snapped tiredly. "I'll tell you what it says."  
  
Peter folded his hands in his lap and fixed Spengler with such a fatuous expression that the older man grinned despite himself. "M'Tumba," he began without preamble, "is a legend which can be traced back to the west African coast approximately four hundred years ago but no farther than that. It crossed the Atlantic on the early slave ships, apparently dying out completely in its native land but experiencing a brief resurgence among the voodoo peoples of Hispaniola." He pulled off his glasses again and began to polish them absently on his cuff. "The text makes reference to the 'unspeakable abhorrence which is M'Tumba' and of its unquenchable hunger for human flesh. And that," he concluded, redonning his glasses, "is all there is."  
  
"Not too much," Peter remarked soberly.  
  
"Not much at all," the physicist agreed. "From what little effect our proton beams had, I'd say this M'Tumba -- if that's who we truly fought -- is as powerful as anything we've faced before. I also believe Ray was correct when he said it was at least partially corporeal."  
  
"We've faced corporeal beings before," Stantz protested, his boundless zeal on another uphill swing. "The Boogieman, for instance! All we have to do is break out the molecular destabilizer we used on him...."  
  
Egon stemmed the occultist/engineer's always-enthusiastic, rarely-practical strategy by laying a hand on the young man's uninjured shoulder. "Don't get over-confident, Raymond; this isn't the same thing at all. My instruments registered neither enough PKE nor enough substantiality to resist our weapons the way M'Tumba did. At a guess, I'd say it was drawing on another source of power, but what that could be, I cannot imagine."  
  
Peter's eyes softened, taking on a far away look. "Hispaniola," he muttered. "Haiti. Hmmmm."  
  
"You have an idea!" Ray accused, poking the psychologist in the thigh. "What?"  
  
The green eyes sharpened again. Peter cast a look at his wristwatch, then studied his friends' faces grimly. "Look, guys, I've got a crazy theory to try out on you, then I think I'd better go have a talk with our old friend Sam Cage. If I'm right, he just may hold the key to the whole dirty mess...."  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
During the daytime hours Columbia University presented quite a different face from that lonely and desolate battleground of the night before. Under the afternoon sun the campus glowed with life -- the ceaseless bustle of activity which resembled nothing so much as total chaos to those unfortunates uninitiated into that unique microcosm of the University.  
  
Peter strolled the campus casually, in no hurry to reach his destination. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the familiar air of academe, relishing every sensation. Well over a decade of his life had been spent in these hallowed halls; they had been sanctuary from the tumult of the streets, stability against the emotional upheaval of his youth, and, most of all, the place where he had first made the acquaintances of Egon Spengler and Ray Stantz, the two closest friends Peter had ever had.  
  
He had waved at an ex-student-cum-teacher, sneered nastily at an older antagonist, and signed autographs for several pretty co-eds who recognized him from newspaper articles, before reaching the relatively new structure part of which Professor Samuel Cage had appropriated for his project.  
  
Peter entered the building unchallenged and made his way to the psych lab. The door was closed but unlocked and Peter opened it with a touch. "Hey! Yo!" he called, sticking his head inside. "Anybody home?" Obviously not. The room was empty save for the banks of equipment and monitors lining two walls. He scanned them quickly, nodding his satisfaction at the readings. "Heartbeat ... blood pressure.... Looks like she's in decent shape, considering." He picked up a scratch pad from the desk, skimming the notations there with a frown. "Hmmm, chemical changes growing more pronounced," he read aloud. "Not dangerous yet, but...."  
  
"May I help you?" a cool voice inquired from behind.  
  
Peter spun, nearly dropping the notepad. He recovered instantly to flash the blonde beauty in the doorway his brightest mega-watt smile. "I sincerely hope so," he returned smoothly, running a hand through his already flawless hair. "I can certainly use some ... help, I mean."  
  
Deep blue eyes scanned his lean figure once, finally settling on his face with evident approval. She stepped forward, and Peter's eyes automatically traced the lines of her trim figure through her white uniform.  
  
"I'm Doctor Peter Venkman," he began, offering a hand which was instantly accepted. "I'm here to talk to Sam about Marie D'Loeffier."  
  
"Peter Venkman.... One of the Ghostbusters?" Peter nodded and widened his smile. "I've certainly heard of you," the woman went on, gently disengaging her hand from Peter's. She returned his smile, then cast a worried look over her shoulder toward the glass enclosure housing the sleeper. "But what brings the Ghostbusters here? Is Marie in any danger?" She blushed slightly at Peter's raised brow. "I'm Lucy Robbins," she explained, tossing long blonde hair over her shoulder. "I'm one of the nurses Professor Cage hired to take care of Miss D'Loeffier while she's asleep."  
  
Peter nodded wisely. "I'm sure she needs a great deal of care," he acknowledged, returning the papers to the desk. "She's lucky to have someone as efficient as you to take care of her."  
  
The woman brightened perceptibly, perfectly willing to be flattered by this handsome stranger. "Well," she began, allowing her hand to be retaken. "She does--"  
  
"That will be all, Lucy."  
  
Lucy stiffened at that disapproving voice and hurriedly withdrew her hand again. "Yes, Professor Cage," she told the newcomer. "Good day, Doctor Venkman."  
  
"See you later, Lucy," Peter promised, waiting until she'd disappeared into Marie's room before turning to the portly figure. "Hot stuff there, Sam," he remarked with an amiable leer. "Improves the scenery no end."  
  
Cage sighed. "I was wondering how long it would be before you decided to darken my door again. What is it this time? You get your kicks by making my life miserable?"  
  
Peter perched casually on the edge of the desk, swinging one sneakered foot. "Hey, man, it got me through my first doctorate, didn't it?"  
  
"You got your doctorate," Cage retorted, "by rough-shodding your own projects through over everyone else's."  
  
"You mean," Peter flared, stilling his foot, "that the Board agreed that my research deserved a higher priority than yours did. And more grant money, too," he added, twisting the knife.  
  
Cage snorted and turned his back on the younger psychologist. "Which is why Dean Yaeger had you kicked off campus."  
  
"We grossed a quarter of a mill last year," Peter returned sweetly. "How much did you make?"  
  
That ended that. Shoulders stiff, Cage activated one of the free-standing computers against the wall and called up its main menu. Supremely indifferent to insult, Peter contented himself with retrieving Cage's big notebook, and settling down to read. Cage, noticing this, surrendered on the spot.  
  
"What do you want, Venkman?" he sighed, twitching the notebook out of Peter's hands and clutching it to his thick chest.  
  
Venkman toured the lab again, occasionally bending to examine more closely a softly humming piece of equipment, once flicking a gauge with his fingernail and frowning at the result. He ended his circuit back at the observation window overlooking the still form of Marie D'Loeffier.  
  
"I've seen a lot of strange things since I started Ghostbusting," he began in a different tone. "Gozer, for example; he was actually worshipped as a god by the ancient Summerians, did you know that? I, for one, have no reason to dispute his claim, either."  
  
"What do you want, Venkman?" Cage repeated.  
  
Peter ignored him. "But out of all the weird things I've faced, there's nothing weirder than the human mind." He paused, tilting his head quizzically at his impatient companion. "I've even seen a strong enough psyche prevent a human being from really dying -- well, passing away, at any rate." Peter rapped his fingers lightly against the glass. Marie slept on unaware in her electronically-induced dream world though Lucy looked up and smiled. "We've even been forced to trap the ... well, the echoes for want of a better word, of several people who were too stubborn -- or evil -- to completely let go when their bodies died. Lot of theories on that one, let me tell you!"  
  
"I'm a psychologist," Cage growled, crossing to stand by the distracted Venkman's shoulder, "not a spiritualist -- or even an occultist like that Stantz kid you hang around with. I deal with the vagaries of the human mind; you want to talk life after death, Professor Mater is our resident theologian."  
  
"Life after death is not the subject, Cage," Peter corrected him calmly. "Life from life is."  
  
Cage leaned wearily against the observation port. The glass creaked a protest but held against his weight. "I assume you're leading up to something?"  
  
"The campus murders." Cage reacted to this pronouncement with patent disbelief and Peter hurried to continue. "The human mind produces a great deal of psionic energy, most of which is released during waking hours -- burned off, so to speak, in the form of thought, intuition, emotion...."  
  
"I did mention being a psychologist myself, Doctor Venkman," Cage growled. "Make your point."  
  
Peter rubbed eyes red from thirty-six hours without rest. "When someone sleeps, there's no way to burn off that energy except by dreaming, and that's only low level psi -- not the more powerful wave emanations." He grinned cheekily at the other man. "If you'd read my second thesis, you'd already know that!" Smile fading, he reached across and tapped the notebook Cage still held with a forefinger. "Seven weeks can produce quite a build-up."  
  
Cage cast a startled look at the sleeping woman beyond the glass, his intelligent mind already leaping ahead to the obvious conclusion. "You think Marie is murdering those people in her sleep?"  
  
Peter shrugged. "Not her exactly, but some construct of her subconscious or perhaps even a nether-being using her psi energy to access our reality. Whether it's under her control or not...." He raised both hands, palms up. "Final line: either wake Marie now or risk more people dying when the M'Tumba appears tonight."  
  
Cage drew himself up angrily. "You certainly don't expect me to believe a far-fetched theory like that! M'Tumba, indeed!" He paused, a sly look on his face. "You've got proof of all this, I presume?"  
  
"Proof?" Venkman rubbed his eyes again and then his neck. "The monster we fought last night -- the M'Tumba -- is a superstition native to Haiti. Marie is Haitian."  
  
"Coincidence," Cage scoffed. "That's not evidence."  
  
"No?" Green eyes scanned the lab, finally lighting on a series of graphs neatly stacked in one corner. He selected one marked November 6 and turned to the third page. "This is the electro-encephalograph from last night and early this morning. My friends and I were attacked at 5:00 am." He traced a jagged line until he reached an inked time notation. "Ah-HA! Look at that!"  
  
Cage reluctantly accepted the sheet and followed Peter's pointing finger. "There was unusual brain activity at five o'clock," he admitted, interpreting the information at a glance. "But that doesn't mean...."  
  
But Venkman had already pulled out a second graph, this one marked November 5, and was hurriedly turning pages. "And here.... That policewoman was attacked at 2:15. What do you see here?"  
  
"More ... unusual brain activity." Cage's voice dropped lower and lower until the last words were barely audible.  
  
"What do you want to bet," Venkman concluded pitilessly, "that we'll find a correlation between all of the slasher deaths and the times of Marie's strongest brain activities?"  
  
Cage made no reply for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "What ... do you want me to do, Venkman?"  
  
"What do I--?" Peter's eyes widened in surprise. "No arguments? No discussion? No protest? No...."  
  
"Knock it off, Venkman," the older man snapped. "Just because we can't stand each other's guts doesn't mean I'm too stupid to recognize a definite connection when I see it. You've evidently given this a great deal of thought; what do you want me to do?"  
  
Peter stopped gaping and jerked his head towards the glassed-in enclosure. "Wake Marie," he pronounced succinctly. "Now."  
  
Cage shook his head. "Can't do it." He forestalled Peter's angry protest with a raised hand. "I would like to, but Marie's sleep is being controlled by direct stimulation of her sleep centers and has been for seven weeks. Waking her abruptly could result in severe psychic damage."  
  
"Suggestion?"  
  
Cage pursed his lips. "I'll begin reversing the procedure immediately, of course, but it won't be completed for at least eighteen hours. Marie won't be awake until 9:00 tomorrow morning."  
  
"A lot of people can be dead by the time the sun rises," Peter stated flatly. "I'll hook Egon's psionometer up to your monitoring equipment, but that won't save...." He slumped, leaning tiredly against a bank of equipment for a moment, lost in thought. When he straightened, there was a determined light in his eyes, making them glitter like emeralds in the artificial light., "Only one thing to do."  
  
"What's that?" Cage asked, following him into the glass room.  
  
Peter smiled wryly as though the solution were obvious. "Give M'Tumba a specific target. Stand over there out of the way, Lucy." He waited until both Cage and a confused Lucy Robbins had complied before bending over the still form of Marie D'Loeffier.  
  
"Marie," he crooned in a soft voice. "Marie, this is Dr. Peter Venkman. I'm here to destroy your nightmare, Marie." He paused, and when he resumed speaking his voice was harsh. "Do you hear that, M'Tumba? I'm talking about you, boy! This is Dr. Peter Venkman -- your worst nightmare -- and I'm going to destroy you. Tonight."  
  
With that he straightened, giving Lucy a saucy wink. "At least this way we'll know who the next victim is."  
  
"Who?" Lucy asked, echoing Cage.  
  
Peter smiled wearily. "Me."  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
  
That night the chill of late autumn was even more pronounced than it had been the previous eve. The three active Ghostbusters shivered in their uniforms despite the heavy undergarments they all wore. "I sure wish Yaeger was here," Peter grunted, zipping his collar as far as it would go. "It doesn't seem fair that we have to suffer by ourselves."  
  
"Forget him, Pete," Ray admonished, crouched by Venkman's feet. "I'm more worried about you right now. Did you have to tell that thing to come after you?" He looked earnestly up into Peter's face; Peter smiled.  
  
"It wasn't my first choice, no," he admitted with wry humor. "My first choice was to have it chase Dean Yaeger."  
  
"Peter!"  
  
"But," Venkman hurried on, stifling his youngest colleague by tapping him on the nose, "I figured this way we wouldn't have to chase it all over the campus." He leaned against the building and waved one hand expansively. "We just sit right here and let it come to us."  
  
"You mean to you," Egon pointed out, adjusting his weaponry more comfortably across his shoulders. "Still, it was a good plan. If it works then at least no one else will be killed before Marie wakes up."  
  
"No one else," Ray repeated unhappily. "But I guess you're right; we can handle it better than the police can."  
  
"We?" Peter cocked one brow then reached down to tug at a strand of auburn hair, forcing Ray's head up. "What mean we, Kimosabe? You can't carry a proton pack over that stitched up back of yours."  
  
Ray's eyes hardened. "If you're going to face M'Tumba," he stated flatly, "then I can carry a pack -- and will."  
  
Peter shrugged and gave up. "At least we'll--"  
  
"Shhhh." Egon raised a hand, stopping Venkman mid-phrase. "I think I hear something."  
  
"This could be it," Ray whispered into a walkie-talkie. "Stand by." He attached the device to his belt then shrugged into his accelerator pack, biting his lip to keep from crying out when the straps bit into his wounds. Still, he maintained his silence and climbed wearily to his feet with Peter's unobtrusive assistance. "Do you see anything?" he breathed, peeking around Egon's shoulder.  
  
The tall blond froze, his head cocked in a listening attitude. "I'm not...."  
  
"Uh, fellows?" Peter's hoarse croak brought the other two around at once.  
  
"What?" Egon began.  
  
"That." Peter gestured unnecessarily to the glowing red eyes regarding them from a distance of not more than a score of feet to the rear. The massive node they took for a head shook from side to side, watching the trio with undisguised malevolence.  
  
"Go for the eyes!" Egon shouted, opening up with a quick burst. The other two followed suit, rending the night with an impressive display of unbridled protonic power. The tripled energy stream struck true, hitting the nether-being in the nearest of its glowing eyes. It howled angrily and vanished.  
  
"We got it!" Ray cheered, turning off his thrower. He strode forward toward the now empty spot of earth on which M'Tumba had stood. "We got--!"  
  
"It's not destroyed." Peter caught up with his friend in two strides, snagging him by the collar and yanking him to a halt. Ray gasped at the extra pressure on his back, and Peter released him immediately. "Sorry," he apologized, "but that thing is still here somewhere. I can feel it."  
  
"So can I." Egon spoke from around the building's corner where he was avidly scanning the plaza for signs of renewed attack. "It's waiting its chance. Keep alert -- and together." Disdaining his own advice, he strode a little distance beyond the building, catching sight of several uniformed figures on the far side of the square; he waved. "The police have the area cordoned off," he reported. "At least no human will enter the danger area."  
  
Peter spared one hand to brush his brown hair out of his face, returning it immediately to his particle thrower. "Wish it would make a move," he muttered. "I hate waiting."  
  
As if on signal a low growl filled the air, at first seeming to emanate from every point of the compass. The three men turned slowly in their tracks, sensing danger but seeing nothing. "Looks like you're about to get your wish," Spengler commented from his post a little apart from the others. "Where is it?"  
  
Ray had turned twice when some primal survival instinct directed his attention to the library roof far overhead. His eyes widened at the sight of the half-seen monstrosity crouched there, dark appendages writhing against the night sky. "Up there!" he shrieked, bringing his weapon to bear. "It's on the roof!"  
  
He loosed off a shot but the creature was in motion even as he spoke. It slithered over the edge, dropping to earth mere feet from Peter and Ray, and precisely between them and Spengler. M'Tumba roared its hate and lumbered forward, head down.  
  
"I can't get to its eyes!" Peter yelled, shooting off burst after burst with no effect. "We can't stop it!"  
  
"RUN!" Ray gave Peter a shove, nearly knocking him to the ground. Terrified, the two men turned and ran for their lives, the creature in hot pursuit. Though in good physical condition, the two were soon breathing hard with the attempt at maintaining full speed for so long a time. Behind them the air whooshed with the passage of those tentacle-born claws no more than inches from their heads. Galvanized to even greater speed, the duo flew over grass and tarmac, dodging in and out between buildings, and desperately seeking some kind of shelter from their huge pursuer. M'Tumba followed steadily, it's slithering gait allowing it to maintain a steady pace regardless of the terrain.  
  
"It's ... gaining on us," Ray panted, risking a glance over his shoulder. "We ... can't ... outrun...."  
  
"Save your breath!" Peter ordered, beginning to wheeze himself in the cold night air. "If we can find.... Look! Head for those buildings; maybe we'll ... find some place to hide ... in there."  
  
The two redirected their steps toward a neat grouping of walls and foliage some yards to their left, even increasing their speed slightly at the feel of the fetid breath hot on their necks.  
  
A final burst of speed gained them a respite of a few seconds, long enough to reach the small cluster of spaced buildings picturesquely surrounded by older elms. They wasted several seconds futilely pounding on locked doors with no response, never daring to stop long enough to blast an entrance of their own. They circled the final structure still at top speed, looking around frantically. Finally, Ray's eye lit on three stout boles growing relatively close together at an angle to one wall. He tapped Peter's arm, gesturing. "Over ... over there!" he gasped. "Maybe it can't fit ... between...."  
  
There was no need to finish. The two reached their hoped-for shelter in seconds, diving between the trunks just as the beast reached them. That same unearthly yeow rose again as the humans hit the ground, rolling to opposite sides of the trunks. The elms shook under the impact of a massive body striking them and then falling away.  
  
Peter and Ray lay winded for a split second, then staggered to their feet, their backs braced against unyielding stone as M'Tumba pulled back, unnatural intelligence shining in its eyes. It regarded the pair consideringly, then stuck a tentacle through the trees, its claws missing Ray by inches. He stumbled out of the way, his ankle turning under him and depositing him with a crunch into a pile of leaves where he sat breathing heavily. "This isn't ... going to work for long," he managed.  
  
Peter glared balefully at the entity, patience evaporating. "Time to kick some ass," he growled, opening up with his proton rifle again. The stream played across the extended claws and the creature hissed and withdrew more annoyed than hurt. Peter used the short time interval to cross to Ray's side and pull him up.  
  
"We've got to keep going!" Venkman yelled, automatically pulling a leaf out of his friend's hair. Ray arrested the act by grabbing his wrist, the light of inspiration in his eyes.  
  
"Peter, wait! Vegetation! Your proton stream -- get ready to fire it! Quick!"  
  
Instead of obeying, Peter gave him a violent shove, narrowly preventing the younger man from being cut to ribbons by another -- smaller -- tentacle. "It's coming around the left!" he said, pulling Ray back to his feet and manhandling him to the far side of their tenuous shelter. "Move!"  
  
"Peter!" Ray stopped short, bending to sweep up a leaf-laden branch from the ground. "Fire, Peter! It's made of vegetation!"  
  
"So what?" Venkman demanded, finally training his thrower at the advancing entity. "Our throwers don't put out heat."  
  
"We can still get a spark."  
  
Peter triggered off his weapon, the bolt streaking upwards to the barely seen malevolence now less than six feet away.  
  
"Keep firing!" Ray stuck his dried branch into the energy stream then yelped when the branch suddenly caught, singing his fingers.  
  
Ignoring Venkman's assault, M'Tumba moved forward again. Multiple tentacles writhed at first sight of Ray's primitive flambeau and the creature slithered to a halt. "It's afraid of the fire!" Ray cheered, bravely advancing. The creature retreated, albeit reluctantly, until the trees again separated it from the humans.  
  
Peter, too, located a large branch, igniting it from Ray's and brandishing it like a sword. The M'Tumba retreated another step then crouched, waiting.  
  
"It knows we can't start a major fire without changing our position or burning ourselves to a crisp," Peter remarked with far more calm than showed on his face. "It can just wait us out."  
  
"OW!" Ray cried out as his torch flared up, catching his hand in a searing wave. He automatically dropped the branch, reeling back as the pile of leaves at his feet crackled once and then caught. "Oh, no!"  
  
"We've got to run for it," Peter decided, edging out from behind the elms an inch at a time. His torch, too, was fast running out of fuel; it sputtered and died down. "Blast," he muttered, blowing on it desperately. He turned to flee but M'Tumba was upon them in an instant. A single swat by one of its razored tentacles was sufficient to send Peter's branch flying off into the night and the man himself to the ground clutching his arm.  
  
"Peter!" Ray yelled, throwing himself in front of the fallen psychologist and bringing his particle rifle to bear. He fired a steady stream which M'Tumba ignored, then fell back as the creature again lashed out, missing his head by inches. Tripping over Peter's outstretched leg, he came down hard beside his friend, raising one arm instinctively to ward off that next, fatal blow.  
  
At his side, Peter cursed loudly -- obscene, furious oaths punctuated once by, "Didn't mean to bring you down with me, pal." And then he was firing again, blood dripping from his gashed arm, his aim point-blank and hopeless.  
  
Enjoying its victory, the nether-lord reared up, prepared to strike the final, fatal coupe de grace which would end the battle once and for all. 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
  
Separated from his fellows by the nether-being, Egon fired a steady stream into its seemingly impenetrable hide, finally lowering his weapon as useless. He tensed, prepared to run for his own life, yet the entity totally ignored him, its sights set firmly on the fleeing Peter and Ray. Egon stopped, thinking furiously.  
  
"This isn't working," he muttered, scratching his head. "Think, Spengler, think. What...?" He froze, inspiration softening the lines of his ascetic features. "Marie! The answer must lie with Marie."  
  
He took off for the psych lab at a fast trot, heart pounding with fear for his friends and with the sense of time running out. The front door was unlocked as usual but the lab itself was secured, and Egon wasted several seconds striving futilely for entrance.  
  
"Cage!" he yelled, slamming his fist into the steel barrier. "Cage, it's Egon Spengler!" No answer. Egon listened closely, hearing furtive steps from behind the barricade. He tried again. "Open the door now," he ordered rather more calmly, "or I'll blow it off its hinges." He listened again. The steps hesitated, then neared the door; the lock snicked. Egon didn't even wait for the door to fully open before he was through it and into the lab, glancing wildly around. Behind him the door slammed home.  
  
"What's happening out there?" Cage's hair was a mass of gray tufts barely covering his shiny pate. Sweat misted his face and his eyes shone with fear. "Venkman said that, that ... monster...."  
  
"It's after them now!" the physicist gasped, bunching Cage's shirt front in one fist. "I want to see your test subject and all pertinent notes." He gave the man a shake then released him. Cage dropped back a step, panting as though it had been he who had just run the distance rather than Egon. They studied each other several seconds; finally Cage dropped his eyes.  
  
"This way." He beckoned the other through the connecting door to where Marie D'Loeffier lay still asleep. Her dark face was creased with a tension not normally associated with unconsciousness, and her body twitched spasmodically.  
  
"She slipped into a disturbed dream cycle some minutes ago," Cage explained hurriedly. "She's also producing an increased psi wave output, if I'm reading your meter correctly."  
  
Egon stared down at the woman, chewing his lip. "Peter said you're electronically stimulating the sleep centers to maintain her somnescent state? Low energy pulses?" Cage nodded. Egon bent to examine the electrodes attached to Marie's patchily shaved skull, frowned, then followed one electrode's lead to its source. "How accurate have you been able to map Marie's control centers?"  
  
Satisfaction replaced some of the fear on the psychologist's pudgy features. "Better than any person alive. Marie and I have been working together nearly five years; the brain map has been an on-going project for four."  
  
Egon crossed to the banks of equipment along the wall, then knelt to peer into an access panel near the bottom. At that last, however, he looked up with an expression of interest. "So you can locate the exact portion of Marie's brain which controls her present dream state?"  
  
Cage cocked one bushy brow inquiringly. "Yes."  
  
"Good." Spengler rose, dusting off the already filthy knees of his jumpsuit with automatically precise strokes. "What would happen if you were to use a low level current to disrupt Marie's dream centers -- without waking her?"  
  
Cage's round face cleared. He hurried from the room, returning at once with an electronic probe. He then activated a computer screen against the wall and called up a complicated looking diagram. Egon moved to peek over his shoulder.  
  
"Marie first came to me because she suffers from several extremely rare sleep disorders, one of them distinctly dealing with her ability to dream. I implanted several electrodes directly into her brain for experimental purposes. They're still there and easily stimulated by.... There!" Cage pointed triumphantly to a dark spot against what Egon now identified as a human brain, mapped and diagrammed on multiple graphs. "That's the one we want."  
  
Egon followed the psychologist back to the bed. "Hurry," he urged, glancing at his watch. "Peter and Ray's lives are depending on this."  
  
Cage pushed back some of Marie's hair, locating a tiny sliver of metal implanted directly into the woman's skull. "I don't know what's going to happen," he admitted. "You believe it will affect the creature somehow?"  
  
"That," Egon returned grimly, "is what we need to find out. Hurry, please."  
  
Cage inserted the tip of the little metal probe then pressed a button on its handle. At first nothing seemed to happen, and the two men waited, tense and frustrated. Then, with a suddenness startling in the security of the quiet lab, Marie D'Loeffier began to scream.  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
  
Claws like scythes rose until they loomed far over the heads of the huddled men. Brilliant bursts of ionized energy struck again and again as Peter continued his useless attack. Ruby eyes glittered dangerously in the moonlight, and then the creature staggered backward, affected for the first time by Peter's barrage.  
  
Surprised, Peter jammed his elbow into his companion's ribs though not letting up on his assault for a moment. "Ray! It felt that!"  
  
Stantz followed Peter's line of fire, sharp mind coming to the same conclusion as had Venkman. He fumbled in the dirt for his own thrower and thumbed it on with hands which trembled. "Something must have weakened it," he told the other, grinning with satisfaction when the creature wavered slightly, actually becoming insubstantial for a moment. "Full stream, Peter!"  
  
"Who-HOO!" Venkman cheered, powering up.  
  
M'Tumba backed away carefully, the dark matter making up its body wiggled under the assault as though possessed of a life of its own -- which, for all they knew, it was. The great head rose again and this time there was more than anger in its projected aura -- there was fear. It howled, turned and sped off, heading back in the direction from which it had come.  
  
"We have to go after it," Ray gasped, struggling to stand. The tautness of his face and voice won him a sharp look from his partner.  
  
"You gonna make it?" Peter asked worriedly, gaining his own feet. "Your back is bleeding again."  
  
"So is your arm," Ray pointed out, gesturing to the soggy right sleeve. "He hurt you bad, didn't he?"  
  
Peter spared him a thin smile. "If you're asking does it hurt," he pronounced carefully, "the answer is that that is a stupid question! Of course it hurts!"  
  
Ray fished into a pocket of his coveralls, wincing as the movement irritated the torn-out sutures in his back. He emerged with a length of handkerchief and beckoned the other closer. "I'd better try to stop that bleeding." He wound the cloth twice around Venkman's forearm, then tied it off. "I'm sorry," he apologized when Peter yelped. "I'm trying to be careful.... We have to hurry...."  
  
"It's okay, Ray." Peter forced a reassuring smile at the younger man's concerned expression. "And there's no rush; I know exactly where it's headed."  
  
"Back to the lab?" Ray guessed, double checking his handiwork. "The bleeding's slowed anyway."  
  
"The lab," Peter acknowledged, checking his arm for himself. "I think something happened to Marie."  
  
"Maybe Egon happened to Marie," Ray added, enthusiasm returning at the thought. "We'd better go then." He took a single step forward, then stopped to peer around confused at the unfamiliar surroundings. "We're not even on the campus anymore," he remarked wonderingly. "Do you recognize this place?"  
  
Peter shook his head. "College is that way, though." He jerked his thumb in the general direction into which the beast had disappeared. "Come on, I have an idea of how to get there quick."  
  
Ray followed curiously as Peter trotted in the opposite direction from the campus. They searched in vain for a gate through a stone fence and were finally forced to help each other across the divider to the main street.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Ray asked, looking up and down the silent thoroughfare for signs of life.  
  
In answer, Venkman strode purposefully to the nearest vehicle -- an old brown Pinto missing half its paint. "We need transportation," he explained, trying the doors. "Neither of us are up to another run, and we can't catch that thing on foot anyway." Finding the car locked, Peter hesitated not a moment in unslinging his particle thrower and firing a short burst through the driver's side window. Glass burst inward, a thousand shards embedding themselves in the tattered upholstery. Peter stuck his head through the opening and let himself in.  
  
"These old heaps are pretty easy to hotwire," he went on, brushing off the glass before lowering himself to the floor of the car. "If you know how, that is." He fumbled under the dashboard several seconds while Stantz tapped impatiently on the roof.  
  
"Come on, Peter," Ray begged, poking his head through the window. "If you can't do it, I can; I built a car like this in shop."  
  
The car chose that moment to roar into life. Peter reappeared head up, to shoot his younger colleague a grin. "Taxi?" he offered, waving Ray in.  
  
Their uniforms got them through the police cordon and then they were running again, covering the short distance to the psych lab on foot.  
  
"Be careful," Venkman cautioned, peering nervously up at the rooftops surrounding them. "It could be anywhere, waiting for us."  
  
Just then a brilliant flash of light lit the night sky; the source: their designated goal of the psych lab. "At a guess," Peter remarked drolly, increasing his pace, "I'd say it's over there."  
  
"So's Egon," Ray added grimly, hurrying to keep up.  
  
The heavens blazed again as Peter and Ray reached their destination. Egon stood braced, back to the building's main entrance and playing a steady stream of accelerated protons over the dark nether-being. M'Tumba howled furiously, occasionally striking out with its unsheathed claws, then staggering backward under the impact of Egon's weapon. The blond physicist looked up at his partners' appearance, white teeth flashing in a relieved grin.  
  
"I think we can take it now," he yelled over the din of energy bolt and howling beast. "It's badly weakened!" These words seemed to be born out by the effect of Peter's and Ray's added assault; the ancient terror once used to frighten children in Haiti and far-off Africa, wavered, growing almost transparent as its power leached away. It howled furiously at its capture, yet was powerless in the energy web.  
  
"We can trap it!" Ray's voice was shrill with excitement and triumph. "Egon, throw out a trap! Now!"  
  
"Done." The tall blond unhooked one of the miniature containment vessels from his belt, tossing it under the creature with an expert flick of the wrist. "Trap open!" he announced, stepping on the activator pedal.  
  
The darkness was dispelled as a fire brighter than the proton beams -- brighter even than the sun itself -- cascaded upwards, enveloping the entity in white brilliance. Slowly at first and then faster, M'Tumba was sucked downward into that glowing maw until finally, and with another furious scream, it vanished. The trap snapped shut.  
  
"I don't believe it!" Peter Venkman blinked in the sudden absence of the light, having to squint several seconds before his vision cleared. "We actually got the sucker! I'm not sure how, but...."  
  
"Easy." With a nonchalance usual to the man, Egon reholstered his particle thrower and retrieved the trap, holding it carefully by the long cord; he then laid it carefully to the side. "You mentioned that you believed M'Tumba was drawing strength if not actual existence from Marie D'Loeffier's mind. When I saw that she slipped into a violent dream state when M'Tumba appeared, I theorized it was that portion of her brain which the creature was accessing. Disrupting that...."  
  
Venkman raised a hand, stemming his colleague's explanation before it gained too much momentum to stop. "I get the picture, Spengs," he said wearily. "We can talk about it later." He swayed on his feet and Ray reached a hand to steady him. Peter supported himself against his friend's arm, then had to make a quick grab for Ray as the younger man's legs buckled. He eased Ray to the wide steps, then sank down next to him, where the two sat leaning wearily against each other.  
  
"The conquering heroes," Peter muttered disgustedly, cradling his arm. "I wouldn't mind seeing a doctor right now; what about you, Ray?"  
  
Stantz nodded and unsnapped the buckle securing the proton pack to his waist, then allowed Egon to lift it off. The pack came away wet with the blood soaking his uniform.  
  
"Seeing a doctor is an excellent idea," Spengler commented, having to prop Ray's sagging figure upright. "It looks like you both are going to need a couple of stitches."  
  
"A couple?" Peter stared at Ray's back with something akin to horror. "For this," he said, raising his right sleeve, "we need a couple of stitches. For that, we uses a Singer!"  
  
Ray smiled at him weakly. "It's not that bad, Pete," he protested. "I think it's stopped bleeding; your arm hasn't."  
  
"You're both going to the hospital," Spengler stated firmly. "I will brook no argument on the subject." He broke off at the appearance of Samuel Cage at the building's door. Peter and Ray, drawn by his attention, also looked up. Cage peered cautiously around as though expecting an attack from any quarter.  
  
"Bad guy go bye-bye," Peter told him laconically.  
  
Cage stared.  
  
"He means we've captured the M'Tumba," Egon translated, pointing to the blinking ghost trap. "It's safe to come out now."  
  
Cage smiled his relief. "Good. I heard the sounds of the battle from inside, but I couldn't tell what was going on." He straightened his back, painting a sloppy grin on his face. "I just thought you'd like to know that Marie is waking up -- and she's all right."  
  
"I'm glad one of us is," Peter sighed, laying his head in his hand. "Because I think I'm going to have to borrow her nurse for awhile." With that, he closed his eyes, refusing to say another word until the ambulance arrived and whisked him away.  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
  
Peter and Ray were each treated for their injuries and released into the solicitous custody of Egon Spengler. After an aspirin-and-champagne celebration and several hours' sleep, they returned to the hospital to retrieve Winston, stopping by mutual consent to visit Marie D'Loeffier on the way home. They found the Haitian woman sitting up in her modified hospital bed sipping a weak cup of tea. The IV was still taped to her arm, but her eyes were bright; the once slack features alive with renewed awareness. Having been informed by Cage of the events of the previous night, she greeted them warmly and declared herself quite willing to discuss her experience.  
  
"But how can you be sure it will not be back?" she exclaimed in her accented English after hearing Egon's impromptu mini-lecture on M'Tumba's origin. "What will happen the next time I sleep? Will M'Tumba return again?"  
  
"Not possible," Egon asserted. "Since it did not dissipate even after your dream cycle was interrupted we must conclude that M'Tumba simply borrowed the psi-energy from your dreams that it needed to open a dimensional nexus to this plane, then continued to augment its fields with your own. Once you awoke it no longer had the power necessary to fight our weapons. It's trapped now permanently in our containment unit. It won't be coming back."  
  
"No need to be afraid any more, Marie," Winston said confidently. He shifted in his chair -- the only one in the room -- until he could see the woman's face more clearly. "Once we trap something, it stays trapped."  
  
"And if you ever need us again," Ray promised earnestly, "we'll be back. Promise."  
  
Marie smiled at the young occultist, then turned her head to include the others in her gratitude. "I am very grateful to you all. So, too, I am certain, is Monsieur Cage."  
  
"Ahem." Cage left his post near the main equipment bank to take up a new one just behind Egon's shoulder. "Yes, I ... um ... I'd like to thank you Ghostbusters as well." He took Marie's hand gently in his own. "Marie has become quite important to me over the last five years; I would not like to lose her."  
  
"But your experiment, Professeur!" She looked up as Lucy Robbins slipped through the door and crossed to stand by Peter's side. "I have destroyed it with my weakness."  
  
"That's not your fault, Marie!" Ray protested. He shifted slightly in his seat on the edge of her bed, then winced when the stitches in his back pulled. "M'Tumba was just waiting to use you -- or anyone else it could -- to come to earth. You couldn't have known."  
  
"Still...." Marie sighed. "I always thought it was only a story my old nounou would tell me when I was small. It is like your ... how do you say? ... your Boogieman." Her expression was one of sincere regret. "And to think that it was I who summoned M'Tumba to this world to kill again."  
  
"It wasn't your fault, Marie," Egon echoed, patting her shoulder soothingly. "In our line of work we've faced stranger, more powerful creatures than even this."  
  
"Yeah," Peter agreed cheerfully. "Old M'Tumba was kind of run of the mill. You should catch us on a good day!"  
  
Marie stared pointedly at the sling supporting his stitched right arm, then shifted her gaze to Ray's pale face and the neat bandage on Winston's head. She shuddered. "I do not think this day was a good one for you or your friends."  
  
Peter jerked his head at pretty Lucy Robbins and winked. "Oh, I don't know," he said with the trace of a smirk. "I think this could turn out to be a very good day if I play my cards right." Lucy winked and Peter proffered his good arm. "Ready to go?" She accepted his gracious gesture and allowed the handsome psychologist to usher her to the door. "Don't wait up kiddies," he called, with a farewell smile.  
  
Cage watched the departing couple with disgust. "I've known him -- not by choice mind -- for fifteen years now." He paused. "Hasn't changed a bit, has he?"  
  
The three remaining Ghostbusters exchanged a fond look. "No," Winston acknowledged with a smile. "And frankly, we wouldn't have it any other way."  
  
***  
  
finis  
  
*** 


End file.
